


Changes

by ashkatom



Series: Changes | Reunions [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part one of the Changes|Reunions twoshot. Sufferer comes across a dead Psi in his afterlife, they have a touching pale reunion, and Suf is glad that some things never change. Except they do, and maybe that’s okay too. NSFW, so very NSFW. Suf/Psi moirailship/matespritship. Their relationship status is It’s Complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes

You’re not gonna lie, it is a huge relief to not be dead after death. You got the sense of timeless drifting – which is really disturbing for a time player – before suddenly everything snapped into place, and you went glutes-over-teakettle into a sand dune. After nearly a perigee of wandering, you were just about to declare it identical down to the last grain of sand to the desert you spent your pupation in, when you trip over a form lying prone in the sand.

Certainly identical, then.

You haul Psi up out of the sand. His orbs are surrounded by strange purple goggles that are missing the lenses, he’s wearing the most stupid bodysuit you’ve ever seen (and you wear leggings up to your armpits), and when he opens his orbs they’re dead white. But when he grins up at you it’s achingly familiar.

“Nithe gluteth,” he says, and passes out in your arms.

After a perigee, you’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to play the space aspect with your deathbubble-thing. A moment’s worth of memory and you’re in the caves you used to live in before you made your way into the big bad world. The décor and lighting is exactly how Dolorosa used to like it, and you ignore the pang you get when you realise she’s not waiting for you to come back. Instead, you put Psi down on the seating block and cover him in a blanket.

You have no idea how he got here, but you’re going to keep him safe.

—-

He coughs when he wakes up, great, shuddering coughs that look like they’re going to snap him in two. When you move to hover over him, he waves you away and clamps a hand over his mouth. You stand just out of reach, your hands frozen halfway between you, as the coughs subside. There’s a smear of mustard on his hand when he drops it.

“Psi-”

“It’th fine, SF.”

You wince at the new name. “Sorry, wastewipe, didn’t realise that coughing up blood was fine and dandy. I’ll just leave you to this new, horrible form of living then, don’t mind me.”

“What am I going to do?” Psi’s eerie white orbs seem to follow you no matter where you go. “Die?”

You sit down on the floor and lean against the seating block. “Dressed like that? Dolorosa would be so ashamed.”

“I didn’t really have a choithe.”

“You do now.” You wrap your arms around your knees. “If you remember yourself in different clothes, they’ll change.”

There’s a long silence.

“Psi, please, I don’t want to see you in that shit.”

A hand rests gently on your head. “SF. I wath jutht theeing if I could do it. It’th fine.”

You bury your head in your arms. Somewhat muffled, you ask, “Are you real?” Without waiting for an answer you continue. “Oh gog, Psi, I want you to be real. I’m so sick of being dead.” Your shoulders start shaking. “Please don’t be a dream, for the love of everything I hold holy, I couldn’t fucking take it.”

A crackling power surrounds you and before you know it, you’re on the seating block with him. His psionics are black and white now, but you’re too busy crying into his chest and choking out how sorry you are to care. His arms are warm around you and he’s saying something back, but you can’t hear over the sound of his bloodpushers beating.

If he’s still here when you wake up, he’s real.

—-

You wake up face-to-face with Psi, and you’re too happy to even care about the awkwardness of it. You spend the day pressed together, holding hands, linking legs, and just talking. He stumbles over words more than he used to, and his voice has a slight buzz to it that’s new. He seems slightly alarmed every time you touch him, but settles into it quickly.

“How did you even get here?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “I thet the coordinateth.”

“And?”

He blinks at you. “And I travelled.”

You give up on that line of questioning and rest your fingertips next to his orbs. “What’s with the new psionics? You going through an angsty pupa photography phase?”

“No, I jutht,” he runs his hand through his hair, then seems surprised by both the hand and hair. “I jutht burned mythelf out. It’th how I died.”

You miss his stupid 3D orbs, not that you’ll tell him. You miss the old Psi. But you’re both broken in new and exciting ways, and he probably misses Signless as well. On a whim, you splay your hand over his right bloodpusher and snuggle into him. “Pale for you.”

“What’th with all the feelingth?”

You hit him companionably.

“Yeth, pale for you too SF.”

Some things will never change. And you never want them to.

—-

You manage to turn down the co-dependency dial from embarrassing to liveable after the first week. He even starts taking over the TV and remembering all of his shitty dramas. You spend your time divided between him and your husktop. No matter how hopeless it is, you’re going to keep sending out useless signals, bouncing them off the walls of these bubbles until someone answers. If Psi made it, so could someone else.

Everything is in a comfortable routine until the evening you wake up and Psi’s huddled in a ball on the floor of the communal entertainment room.

“Psi?”

“input required”

You bite your lip. “Fuck.”

“invalid input please rephrase query”

You rub your face. From his outfit when you found him, it was obvious he’d been used in the imperial fleet. They couldn’t waste a psionic, especially not The Psiioniic, most powerful traitor the Empire had ever known. You were never quite sure what that meant, though.

Now you know. It means your moirail curled up on the floor, thinking he’s a fucking spaceship. It means if you were alive, you wouldn’t save the empire, you’d burn it to the ground and dance in the ashes. And it means you have a problem to solve.

“Helmsman. Uh. Scan system.”

“further input required”

“Scan system for whatever the fuck you are and realise you’re not a fucking ship!”

His orbs continue looking at nothing. “invalid input”

You groan and sit next to him, taking one of his hands. “Helmsman, what am I holding.”

Transparent, slightly yellow tears begin rolling down his cheeks. “personnel is holding hand of pilot, psionic class five, title the psiionic, one thousand and twenty five sweeps of age, crewed to flagship of imperial fleet captained by her imperial condescension”

Just as you’re about to ask another question, he adds, “decommissioned.”

You resist the urge to swear admirably. “Helmsman, you are the fucking Psiionic, the pilot, whatever. Wake up.”

“invalid input invalid input invalid input”

“Shut up!”

“invalid input”

“There’s the asshole I know,” you mutter to yourself. “Psi, Helmsman, Helmonic, it’s me. Look at me.”

“command invalid no viewport access”

“Use your orbs, you lususless excuse for a troll!” You grab his head and make him face you. “Just look at me!”

His orbs stare right through you.

“Psi, you were decommissioned, you’re dead and you’re with me, fuck, it’s not comforting but it’s all we have, and I need you here, not like this, this is such a load of steaming waste and if I ever see Condesce I am going to serve it up to her, but I need your help, please.”

Slowly one of his hands reaches up to touch yours, and despite the lack of pupils, it now feels like he’s looking at you instead of through you. With a strange half-smile, he says, “Valid input.”

You try to shove him and hug him all at once. “You fucking bonebulge, cram it up your nook!”

“Thorry, SF.”

“You should be!”

He leans forward and kisses you, more tenderly that you thought he was capable of. Caught halfway through your tirade, you gasp, and he takes that as permission to kiss you harder, sliding a hand down your back and a fang against your lip.

You come to your senses and shove him until he stops. “Psi, what the fuck!”

He licks his lips nervously and swallows. “Thorry, I, I thought it theemed-”

You’re red now, and you squirm out of his grasp before any more harm can be done. “Thought what? I’m insane and I’ve driven my moirail crazy with worry, surely now is a good time to get my mack on!”

“I won’t again, I’m thorry, SF, I’ve been alone forever and I found you and-”

“And you try to pail me? I thought spaceships were meant to be logical!”

“I wathn’t trying to pail you, I jutht wanted to feel leth alone!” He shouts this at you, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him shout in forever.

The wind is taken out of your sails. You smooth out your cloak and run agitated hands through your hair while you calm down enough to respond. “Look, are you going to have another one of these relapses any time soon?”

He shakes his head.

“Then go use the ablutions stall and relax. I’m going to take a nap. When I wake up, this never happened and we’re fine. Got it?”

“Got it,” he says quietly. “Thorry, SF.” He gets up and leaves before you can respond.

Not that you know how you would.

—-

While at first your plan seemed genius, you have come to the conclusion that when you thought of it, you were an idiot. Why? Well, because:

1\. The ablutions chamber is next to your room

2\. The walls are abnormally thin

3\. Unlike most trolls, you don’t sleep in a vat of insulating slime

Those reasons combined mean that you can hear every noise Psi is making. Wasn’t going to pail you, your foot. You roll over and shove the nearest item in your pile over your head, but it’s no good. Even worse, the part of your brain that says you haven’t pailed in a long, long time and Psi’s not exactly unattractive is making several suggestions and waggling its eyebrows.

And the honest part of your brain is saying he’s not the only one who doesn’t want to be alone.

Just as you’re about to get up and do – something, gog knows what, Psi lets out a low moan. There’s a thump, and then a few moments later the water shuts off.

You shove the cloth down harder over your head and spend the next few hours cursing yourself and Psi instead of napping.

—-

When you’re finally sure you can exit your respiteblock without turning bright red and hiding behind your cloak, you do so, only to immediately be proven wrong. Psi is eating an orange, peeling away its segments, biting into them and sucking them dry. You caught him on the last segment, and when he finishes it he cleans off his fingers one by one. The thought of where those fingers have recently been makes you gulp, and he looks up.

You cover smoothly. “Where’d you get the orange?”

“I wanted it.” He holds out a hand, and an orange appears. “Thee?”

You haven’t actually thought about food the whole time you’ve been in the bubble, but evidently eating is still a thing you can do. You take the orange and peel it slowly, holding it up to your nose to smell the fresh citrus. “Fuck. I can see why you wanted one.”

He shrugs. “And it’th kind of a peathe offering.”

You pull off a segment and pause with it halfway to your lips. You look at the segment, then at Psi, then throw the piece of orange at him. “No forgiveness for that shitty pun.”

He throws it back and snickers. “What are you going to do, give me a piethe of your mind?”

“I’ll take you to pieces, you lisping hornsucker!” You throw it back and pelt a couple more segments after it for good measure.

“SF, that’s horrible! You need to give thith piethe a chance!”

“Augh!” You lob the rest of the orange at him. He sits down on the seating block and eats it too, the same way. Licks his fingers clean in the same way. You’ve gone from normal to awkward in just a couple of minutes and he doesn’t even realise. There is a new record-holder for fastest achievement of awkwardness and it is you.

He looks up at you. “Thomething wrong?”

“Uh,” you manage. His lips are still shiny-sticky with orange juice and the voice in your head is shouting to go for it, he wants it, you want it, just kiss the man!

He raises an eyebrow. “You theem kind of dithtracted.”

“I.” You flail wildly. “I don’t know!”

The other eyebrow raises to join the first. “Don’t know what? Calm down, SF, if it’s about Helmthman-”

“Yes! No! Okay look-” You take the remnants of the orange from his hands and toss it away. “Psi, don’t make me regret this.”

“Regret wha-”

You lean forward and kiss him. He tastes like the oranges you never ate and you run your tongue along his lips trying to taste more. The sound you get in return makes you shiver, and when Psi drags you down to meet him, you go willingly.

You quickly fall into a rhythm as Psi kisses you over and over again, briefly but enough to make you dizzy every time. When his teeth catch against your lower lip or one of his tongues slides against yours you make embarrassing needy squeaks, and he chases these down until you’re melting against him.

You grab his hair with one hand and pull him closer. His hands slide up your back and then tug your cloak free, and he leans back for a moment to toss it away before kissing his way up your bared neck. When he reaches your ear, he kisses behind it and half-growls, “You won’t.”

You’re already past the point of stopping, and those two words have you ripping at his shirt because you’re too impatient to figure out buttons, why the fuck would he wear something with buttons, who does that. Once you have it off, mostly, you drag your nails down his back. He arches into you and bites where your neck and shoulder meet, his hands tightening around your ribs. You groan and return the favour, biting and sucking along his neck until he’s too overwhelmed to do anything but repeat, “Oh gog, SF, pleathe,” and variations thereof.

“You never were able to shut up,” you tell him in between breathless kisses.

A groaned “SF…” is your only reply. Then he tugs at you hair. “Oh thhit, SF, thtop, thtop for a thec.”

You straighten up and attempt to pretend you’re completely in control of all your faculties. You fail miserably. “What.”

“I can’t pail right now, not tho thoon,” he grimaces, “I mean, I have no problemth with pailing you, but-”

“You self-pailed in the stall, I know.” You trace his lower lip with your thumb, and his eyelids half-close as you do so. “So what.”

“Tho if thith ith going to be a one-time thing becauthe you freak out like you alwayth do when it cometh to thith thit, I want to make the motht of it.” He kisses the palm of your hand and the inside of your wrist. “I did not expect thith to happen.”

“What the fuck is the point of being alone?” You kiss him again. “I died alone. I’ve been alone since. I’m over it.” You bite his lip hard enough to make him gasp. “Screw everything, Psi. I want this. Now either bring it or quit fucking around.” It’s probably more your libido talking than anything, but for a moment his orbs shine blue and red, and your bloodpusher leaps in a way that’s got nothing to do with pailing.

He rolls you both over so that he’s on top, and you suspect psionics are the only reason you’re not on the floor. Then he kisses you languidly, almost chastely, and you’re about to bite him in frustration when sparks fly.

Literally.

Your lips go numb for a moment, then every nerve lights up. You gasp and claw at his back, unable to deal with the new input. You’re pretty sure psionics were never meant to be used this way, but if he stops now you’re going to dump him back in the desert and leave him there.

He hooks two fingers into the material under your armpits and pulls it down just as slowly, the fire the fingers leave making you helpless to do anything other than swear and beg. He stops at your hips, though, and you kind of want to kick him but can’t muster up the energy to actually do so.

“I hate you,” you pant at him.

In response he licks two long lines up your torso. Once you recover from seeing stars, you grab him by the horns and kiss him desperately. One of your legs is wrapped around his and pressing his hips into yours and you don’t even know when that happened.

“Lithened to me thelf-pailing, huh?” One of his hands finally slides under your leggings and you grab his hips with both hands, fingers digging in. “Huh, thure feelth like you liked the sound of it.”

“Gog, Psi.” You work your hips to try to get a little friction going, but he pulls away and raises an eyebrow until you stop.

“Tho what then?” He finally starts moving his fingers and you practically stop breathing. “Got a voyeurithm kink? Not what I expected of you, SF, but a pleathant thurprithe.”

“Oh my gog shut up.” You’re panting harder now. “You didn’t exactly make it hard fuck if you make a pun I’m going to kill you get a bucket.”

He smirks. “Don’t have one.”

“What?” you shriek, just before he buries his fingers in your nook as deep as he can and pours energy into you.

—-

When you come to Psi is lying on top of you, still half-dressed and snoring quietly. Any – gog fucking dammit you are going to pay him back – genetic material is gone, one of the advantages of a dream bubble you guess.

The world feels a little less desolate with someone beside you.

You sling an arm around his waist and go back to sleep.


End file.
